Victory
by Someone aka Me
Summary: "She is so beautiful, still, you think, even as you play her ribs like piano keys, counting every note in your head." :: TeddyVictoire, mentions of self-harm and anorexia.


For Olive and her muse, from Harry and Clara. Olive, I meant for this to be happy… I don't know what happened.

Also for GGE 2013, because I suck.

Inspired by Andrea Gibson's _Maybe I need you_. If you've never heard it, go google it. Now.

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She is Victoire. Victory. She is fantastic, blonde, and fierce. She is your childhood and your happily ever after.

You take her hand and whisper poetry into the paper of her skin. You trace her scars with your lips and her ribs with your fingertips. All the while you wonder how she got like this, how it took you so long to notice that your beautiful Victoire was wasting away before your eyes.

She is so beautiful, still, you think, even as you play her ribs like piano keys, counting every note in your head.

She is so beautiful, still, you think, even as you kiss the tears in her pretty paper skin and count every torn word.

You remember when she was a piano you couldn't play, when she heard she was beautiful and she believed it, before she became so fixated on that ideal that she started missing reality. She wasn't, isn't, seeing in the mirror what you see so clearly before you. You see the bones of her sharp elbows, the way her collarbones jut out of her neck, the way her wrists are so thin you can wrap your fingers around them twice. You see a skeleton, flesh painted on over top, five feet four and barely forty kilos. She sees the swell of her hips, the way her stomach rolls when she sits. You see her wasting away, she sees herself wasting space, and you don't know how to fix this.

You leave the lights on when you tell her she's beautiful.

She turns them off.

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She is Victoire. Victory, and she will triumph, because you can't accept anything else. She is your childhood and your happily ever after, and you will not let her waste away.

You worship her in a language you do not yet know how to speak, telling her with your eyes and your mouth and your fingers that you love her and you always will. You trace her scars with calloused fingertips and tell her, "It's okay," even as you tell her, "Never again, please." You play her piano key ribs and you cry for her.

You make her eat and you hate it, hate the way she looks at you as though you are betraying her, but you do it anyway. You know she needs you to be here more than she needs to like you. You watch her put on half a kilo, throw a fit and lose it all over again. You give her nutrition potions and she pours them down the sink the moment you look away.

You don't know how to help her when she's the one you're fighting against.

You stay because she needs you but it is killing you slowly inside. You try, because you don't know what else to do, but she is wasting away and she is taking you with her.

You hold her tight. You leave the lights on when you tell her she's beautiful.

She turns them off.

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She is Victoire. Victory, and maybe you are starting to believe that. She is your childhood and your happily ever after, but you don't believe in fairy tale endings anymore. This hurts more, but it's worth it.

She puts on two kilos, drops a half and then gains it back. She hates herself, hates you but she is hungry, her body is craving food and that means her body is on your side.

You can only play half the piano keys. You wrap your hands around her too thin wrists and your fingers don't go around twice.

You whisper poetry into the tears of her skin and try to knit them back together with your words. There are fewer new ones. You press your lips to the reddest of them and say, "It's okay, Victoire," and "I still love you, Victoire," and "This doesn't make you weak, Victoire." And then, "Please, never again, Victoire."

She still cries when she looks in the mirror and you let her because you know that her perception still doesn't match reality and that's how you know she is not healed. But she is healing, and that is all you ask for right now. She asks you if she's beautiful and you do not hesitate.

"Always, Victoire."

You leave the lights on when you tell her she's beautiful.

She lets you.

She is Victoire, Victory, as you have always known she was. She is your childhood and your happily ever after, of a real life sort.

You cannot play the piano keys of her ribs, haven't been able to in months. The newest tear in her paper skin is old enough that you can't remember the exact day it appeared. You whisper poetry that you both understand, your words leaving ink in her paper skin.

Her smile reaches her eyes for the first time since it all began and in return you smile so hard it hurts, your face threatening to break. You don't care because she is your Victoire, your fantastic, blonde, fierce, _beautiful_ Victoire and maybe she's starting to see what you see when you look at her.

She still stares too long in the mirror, prodding at the curve of her hip but when she does, you curl your hand overtop of hers and tell her she is perfect.

She leaves the lights on when you tell her she's beautiful.


End file.
